Illustration commission for Erica, a scene from their campaign!
 When a fae god tells you to call your mom and shows you a scrying pool, what else do you do but call? đŚđ
  â¨commission info in source link belowâ¨
"Landscape with the Education of Bacchus" by Francesco Zuccarelli
From what I've read so far on Hyrsam, the Archfey, he seems to be a mix between Pan and Dionysus (if we're sticking strictly to classical mythology). So I am assuming his retinue is very, very, very, very much like the Bacchante/Maenads which is such a WIN in terms of glamor. Here are some paintings for inspiration for the Feywild's favorite Prince of Fools.
More paintings below the cut!
"The Triumph of Bacchus" by Nicolas Poissin
"Faun einer Amsel zupfeifend" by Arnold BĂścklin
"Faun, die Syrinx blasend" by Arnold BĂścklin
"Pan im Schlif" by Arnold BĂścklin
"Spring Evening" by Arnold BĂścklin
"Bacchus and Ariadne #2" by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
"Cupid and Pan" by Agostino Carracci
"Silene and Dionysus" attributed to the French School of the 18th century
NAME. Hyrsam
AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown
GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him
SPECIES. Aspect / Archsatyr
OCCUPATION. Mayor & Employed Everywhere
FACE CLAIM. Carloto Cotta
BIOGRAPHY
( tw: cannibalism, death, violence, theatricality, emotion, performance, art ) At the feet of Corellon Lathander, Sehanine Moonbow bequeathed to him an oracle that would foretell the undoing of the Seldarine. A day would come when the blood of the green flames of Azathoth would fall upon FaerĂťn once more, and Corellon Lathander would be slain.
From this they divined that the promised son of Oberon would be responsible for bringing about the doom of the Seldarine. That the infant would grow into manhood, and he would raise an army from the court of the Dawn that would rebel against the Seldarineâs empire. As Ada laboured with her son; cataclysms fell across the realm and every curse accessible to the great forces of Corellon Lathander were lobbed at the realm of the elves whoâd long taken Oberon as their patron over the Seldarine. The archfey, fearsome, powerful, and indomitable even in the face of an army of divinity, rose to defend his labouring mistress.
From her bowels the unborn child devoured, hungry, cursed, and spurned by the Gods above. Despite the efforts of the Seldarine, Hyrsam was born.
Clip. Clop.
Cloven hooves hit the earth, or at least the realm that would someday be called earth and from that day forth Hyrsam was born. Back when the world was new and the realm was down on its luck, Oberonâs perfect, red faced, screaming satyr came into the world. At his back was the gory mess that heâd devoured from the inside out, Ada was dead, but as an infant he hadnât known any better. From the moment he was born, Hyrsam stood at full height, wobbly legs got him started, but soon after he was clopping after Oberon everywhere he went.
Hyrsam, twice born, adopted many names over the years but Dimetor was most often used when he was in his youth. Named for the curse that the Gods placed on him; just as Dimetor had consumed his mother on the way out, he himself would have to be devoured at the anniversary of his birth every year. A potent spell woven in blood and cast by Corellon Lathander himself, the assumption was that no father would ever be able to stomach the taste of their own sonâs flesh. Unfortunately and not for the first or last time, Corellon Lathander had underestimated Oberon. Stubborn to the bone, he decreed that a great feast would be held every year, a celebration of celebrations, the Bacchanalia.
Year after year the young archsatyr grew and with it his power did as well, Oberonâs flames of creation flowed through his veins and at the height of the world he felt powerful. A mischievous trickster, he traipsed through the realms of the Gods and melded himself within the company of satyrs, nymphs and more. He lay with spouses, hosted orgies, incensed Gods into foolish and humiliating behaviour and then disappeared once more without a trace. Heâd have the grandest feasts where heâd encourage mothers to eat their crying babies - no, he didnât do that. Unless?
Tales of Dimetorâs exploits were rarely uttered; few Gods or nobles wanted to confess that theyâd fallen for his tricks. Among the common elves across the FaerĂťn revered Dimetor as a cultural hero, a champion of the common plight that showed the evidence of the fallacy of divinity. His parties were not limited to the noble houses or the divine realms, he was found in the forests of the Otherworld, in the swamps of murkwood, and Dimetor or his many epithets came to be whispered to over every cup of drink or substance.
In time the Seldarine worked to beat Oberon and Dimetor at their own game, while Oberon took great amusement from his sonâs exploits, he never acknowledged this outright. He preferred battles and upfront confrontation to illusions and deception. Spies from the Gods worked their weaves through the Dawn Court and eventually had the people who once worshipped Oberon turn their backs on him. The archfey lost their patronage and he was exiled from the realm before he could be given Titaniaâs hand in marriage. Furious at this loss, Oberon and Dimetor departed to a fallen realm that had been cast into the Astral Sea with the rising spellplague.
Again and again Dimetor would return though, like genital warts he proved to be difficult to get rid of. The Seldarine fought against the Great Old Ones, the spellplague rose, and inevitably they were chased from Arvandor as well. Absent Oberon and his forces to help them in their fight, their prophecy seemingly self fulfilled as Dimetor followed the tribe of elves from Hyperborea to the land that would be the mortal realm once more. Masquerading as a simple satyr who now served the stinky, false satyr King, Silenus. It was here that he found himself in Eden where he fornicated frequently and ate people rarely. True to his needs, in secret Dimetor established the Bacchic Mysteries, a cult of worship that pervaded the first people and would follow them into the ancient world.
Across the realms Dimetor travelled, different shapes and different forms, his fatherâs power over the green flames of creation at his fingertips. In one guise or another, the Underdark, Arvandor, Elysia, the Inferno, Elysium, Skyhome, and so many more. Collector of stories and lies, it was in the depths of Menzoberranzanâs royal court that he met the wyvern revenant, the hand of the Queen that was a conquest first and then a lover second. It wasnât in Dimetorâs nature to love, and yet the stoic riddle maker captivated him; the truth of his identity revealed: Sehanineâs predictions clear, Dimetor travelled between the Underdark and the mortal realm as he gleefully paraded about the annals of history.
The beauty of Dimetorâs worship was that he was just another face in the crowd, fennel wands with tipped pine cones dipped in honey, pan flutes, feathers, and the hides of animals: leopard was a favourite. His followers were everywhere, people from the lowest classes loved him first but in time Dimetor was considered fashionable as Dionysus was adopted into the noble and the ruling classes. Soon he pervaded the many spaces of the rising classical world before falling out of vogue once more.
Embarrassment at Rome saw Dimetor replaced; when he returned to Oberonâs domain, heâd chosen a new heir. A second son, one who didnât fornicate with every creature that held the mental capacity of something humanoid or greater. One born without a curse over his name or an oracle hanging over his head; it was no matter though, Dimetor and Oberon had once lost the faith of the Dawn Court; heâs take their favor for himself and then use it to devour his father just as heâd done his mother. Now that would be hilarious. First, Dimetor would need an assistant, Elmas was between jobs and came highly recommended. The Assistant was incredibly skilled, and in short order, he claimed the title of Mayor of Rome - and next? The world⌠Or something like that.
NAME/ALIASES. UTP
AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown
SPECIES. Aspect
GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him or He/They
AFFILIATIONS. Satyrs
OCCUPATION. UTP
History
Oberonâs first and only naturally born son, Hyrsam came screaming into the world and was born from the power of an archfey and the satyr that heâd lay with. The potency of Oberonâs seed had devoured her from the inside out, born in cannibalistic bloodshed, Hyrsam stepped first onto the earth that would someday be called the mortal realm with a pair of cloven hooves. Every year on the anniversary of his birth Oberon decreed that his son would be torn apart in ritualistic, hedonistic ceremony. A great festival and celebration heralded by the fruitful and fertile dawn elves; the most numerous of the elven species, Hyrsam would be anointed, praised, and worshipped at his festival of Great Dionysia, and then his body would be violently consumed. An archsatyr, the dawn elves of this realm revered them above the Seldarine, Oberon whoâd once fought beside Lathander himself had opted to live apart from the pompous creatures that stood to replace the first King of the Gods. Born for the wilds, his power rivalled Corellon Larethian, Kthanid, Ulthar, and even Oztalun.Â
Jealousy festered in the hearts of the Seldarine, their ire directed towards the dawn elves and the satyrs that lifted Oberon and Hyrsam up. An oracle came, delivered to Sehanine Moonbow from the Graeae themselves that the archfeyâs son would grow in strength and power, then he would come to topple the great Seldarine themselves. Discontent was sewn among the elves, then Oberon and Hyrsam were overpowered, cursed and banished. Hyrsam would have to be consumed every year or lose his immortality, and in their absence the realm fell to The Great Old Ones; later to be claimed by the Seldarine once more as they built Eden over the bones of Oberonâs sacred temples. Malevolent, mischievous, and built of folly, Hyrsam returned to the mortal realm time and time again to sow mischief, the greatest of which sent the whole of Rome into a spiral. Oberon, however, valued power and stereotypically masculine energies over the man heâd raised. Hyrsam lost his fatherâs blessing and a great deal of power as a new heir was chosen: Aegnor of the lorendrow.
Connections
Ariadne: Hyrsam found her on her little island and used to visit her before he brought Eve to rescue her.
Archdruids: Satyrs were popular in Eden and Hyrsam often disguised himself among them.
Horus: Horus very rudely helped kick Hyrsam and Oberon off the continent. Hyrsam just immediately came back but it was still really inconsiderate.
Elves: Popular among the fey, Hyrsam has attended the majority of their celebrations since Eden.
Abilities
Satyr: All the powers of a satyr and the ability to present as a satyr or as his elven half.
Anti: No supernatural presence, those that see him perceive him solely as human.
Immortal: Ageless and immune to death, in order to keep this power alive he must be ritually cannibalized every year on his birthday ( Great Dionysia )
Potent: Hyrsam's blood is so potent that once exposed to the open air those around him will become intoxicated.
Weaknesses
Satyr: Physically weaker than humans.
Satyr: Iron will burn them.
Satyr: Invoking their true name will break the hold of their magic.
The sun sets early in the grove. The trees reach higher, and the crumbled tower stretches overhead; an obstacle yet to be scaled. Shadows grow long and cut deep, while the night flowers bloom bright to chase back some of the gloom.
This is the only place within the harvest lands where fireflies congregate.They dance lazily over the ruins that moss, clover, and roots have long overtaken. They bump against the satyrâs horns and flutter against their ears with curious antenna. Those few whoâre brave venture out beyond the sanctuary, into the foggy autumn lands where the cold slows them and the haze snuffs out their lights.
At the center of the grove, a statue on a weathered dais is frozen in the act of offering a hand. The coy smile hints at a suitor or perhaps a secret love to which the hand is being offered. Though cracked and going green in places, the figure still remains handsome. One arm lay nearby, having been sheared off when a tree grew too heavy with frost. Itâd lost itâs nose some time ago, long before the satyr happened upon the green sanctuary on accident.
Bristlebud had tried to find a way to reattach the arm, but it was, and still is far too heavy to lift. They often lament this to the statue, when they leap up into itâs intact arm to clear debris from itâs horns and beard. âAt least you got all your important bits,â theyâd say, and pick out any spiderwebs between itâs cock and balls.
They keep itâs face polished, because dirty lips are unpleasant to give a kiss goodbye or goodnight to.
It is the only company they keep. It hears all of their secrets, odd thoughts, and fears. Day and night, it stands watch over their home, a sentinel from ages past when the seasons shifted and the kingdoms were fluid.
Bristlebud prods at the fire to watch the embers dance, and remind it to keep heating the skillet. Butter is very hard to come by without goats or sheep, and they want to enjoy it while it lasts. The onions and mushrooms that hiss and pop in it make their tail wag in anticipation.
They spear an onion with the tip of their dagger, and blow on it. Itâs still too hot; they huff and hiss as they bounce it in their mouth to avoid scalding their tongue. Still, itâs delicious, though a tad bland. The caramelized sweetness, they hope, will help.
When the mushroom edges begin to curl and the onions go clear, they set the pan on the flat stone beside them. Waiting nearby are the last slices of crusty bread. They spoon the buttery mixture onto the slices, and sparingly sprinkle salt and pepper from their near empty seasoning pouch.
A rarity, cucumber, is laid out on the kerchief. This vegetable isnât native to their land, and the lost humans had a great many of them in their wagon. Enough that the four or five slipped into their pocket wouldnât be missed. Cutting into one, Bristlebud delights in the cool, watery odor. It crunches deliciously, and they find itâs even better with a bit of salt.
âOh, to have soft cheese again,â they mutter to the pale green slivers. At least they can imagine how wonderful cucumbers must taste with cheese, salt, and pepper on fresh bread that still has a touch of hearth warmth.
While they pick at the food with greasy fingers, they admire the glint and glimmer of the metal disks and gems that are scattered across the dais. Treasures. Humans, elves, and the short folk all carry those metal disks. Some have a great many, others only a handful. Each are unique; with faces, beasts, or ships and castles stamped onto them.
They always forget to ask about them. The statue has heard the question of what their meaning could be, and isnât expected to answer. Today they forgot again when they came upon the lost humans and their wagon. So distracted they were with the strange looking produce and pretty bolts of cloth, that the question got pushed so far back into their mind that it nearly became lost as well.
Like the cucumbers, they made off with two pieces of fabric. They must be special, Bristlebud thinks, for they doubt the humans wouldâve pursued them so doggedly. Itâd been a merry chase with a great deal of shouting.
It pained them to cut the big cloth. It was far too large to be wrapped around their waist and not trip them or drag in the dirt, and too small to make any use as a curtain. The scraps they saved to patch the lining of their gambeson and one of their bodices. The bronze velvet is beautiful in the moonlight, and more so when the sun catches it. As much as they long to rub it between their fingers now, they resist for fear of smearing butter and crumbs onto it.
With their belly full, they suck their fingers clean and get up to wash the skillet in the spring. While the pan soaks, they idly chew a dry twig to scrap their teeth and tickle their gums.
Only the occasional crack and pop of the fire accompanies their breathing and the babbling water. Itâs too late for the song birds, and still too early for the hooters and howlers. The satyr hums for the sake of making noise, but it only serves to remind them of the emptiness of the grove. There are no others, no family or friends. No Nan to hug them and tell them things will be alright. Even the pissy stink of the old billy goat Nan kept around theyâve found themselves missing.
Once EidhneĂĄn took his place among the Elders, Bristlebud had been chased away from the valley. Too strange. Too quiet. Tainted blood. EidhneĂĄn and those who agreed with him werenât satisfied with them remaining on the outskirts. It was still too close for their liking.
Though Nan too had been marked as an odd one, she was still among the Elders. The knowledge that comes with age allowed her to remain in their home near the forestâs edge.
Despite having been members of the village for three generations, they were still considered outsiders. Nan and Pawpaw had hailed from the highlands to the north of the fertile autumn hills, where the mountains were rocky and snow capped. A place where the satyr stood a few hairs taller, and had great curling horns. Nanâs had coiled so tightly that there was hardly room to wrap them in ribbons or decorate them with chains or bands.
They miss her. They miss being aggravated when sheâd prod them awake with a swift hoof to the thigh, after theyâd fallen asleep at the wall.
Prior to their exile, itâd been their task, as it had been Nanâs, to watch the hole in the wall. No green would grow where the cobblestone had crumbled, only dark twisted briars and muddy moss with vile smelling red flowers. Venom Scaleâs breath had fouled the soil. The poisonous fumes sheâd exhaled across the field caused everything green and sweet in itâs path to wither. On rainy days the acrid scent of it would still rise into the air. It was a funny sort of smell that made Bristlebudâs nose prickle and their eyes water.
Itâd been Nan who convinced the dragon to leave the valley be. She could speak to her in her own tongue, a skill sheâd taught Bristlebud. A monumental task that required a great deal of patience on her part, for Bristlebudâs mind often wandered. âYou may need it, if she suspects weâre hiding treasures,â sheâd warned. It was also a skill to be kept secret from the others. âWe be odd enough already, my little bristlely blossom. We canât be having anyone cast aspersions of being associated with dragons. Your Mamâs sin already has you marked as it is.â
They can no longer count the days itâs been since they last snuck to the border wall to visit Nan. NĂłinĂnĂ had chased them off, slinging river stones and shouting names. Only when they climbed the cracked boulder Venom Scale had cleaved in two, did they manage to have a conversation that wasnât answered with angry curses and spit. Nan had fallen while gathering wood. Though healed, she still suffered a limp, and remained home bound. Age had decided it could finally catch up with her.
The statue had listened to the story when it was fresh and raw. When it made their throat feel tight and their eyes sting. Theyâd curled up in the crooked arm, seeking a facsimile of comfort. The stone had been cool and hard, and the ground even harder when they tumbled out of the embrace, having fallen asleep.
A solitary satyr is a miserable creature. Only the mad and the cruel willingly seek out a life away from others. Or the strange, Bristlebud thinks, and spits out the splintered pieces of twig.
They stand at the base of the dais where the treasures lay scattered. Among them, a little figure made of knobby yarn lay near a crystal. A doll made from all the wool saved out of their comb. It resembles a satyr in that it has two legs, arms, and the vague gist of horns. Tufts of fuzzy wool stick out around the neck to resemble a mane. A gift intended for Nan. Something that looks and smells like them, so she could always carry a little piece of them.
Instead, it lays on the dais. A gift for no one. The clover blossom that was its heart is probably long shriveled.
They scoop up the doll and set it in the statueâs hand. âIf Nan canât have it, Iâd like it to go to you.â
The stone never moves, and yet they look at the hand as if expecting it to close around the gift. To keep the little figure company, they leave three coins in the cupped palm alongside it. The unicorn queen, her golden dragon lover, and the handsome king who knew of his queenâs affair. All stories theyâd made up while stretched out on the dais beneath the shadow of the statue.
They didnât feel like continuing the tale of the scandalous affair tonight. Even with a few new coins to include, the mood thatâd set upon them only makes them wish to sleep. With dawn they hope the sun would chase the dark thoughts and loneliness away.
Images and memories jumble together. Running in the forest while shouting chases them, closer on their heels than any man or elf should be. It garbles and warps, sounding more like rolling thunder, or a great boulder tumbling down the mountainside.
Bristlebudâs ears lift at the sound of stone scraping stone. It quickens their heart and tenses their muscles. Could the tower be toppling?
Before they could leap up to anticipate the danger, a voice tells them: âKeep your eyes closed, my funny little cleric.â
Cleric? As much as they long to twist their head around to seek out the voice, something compels them to obey. Itâs no malicious sort of thing. No magic that twists their mind to heed the words. A gentle request from a lovely voice.
The hand that touches their arm is initially cold and hard, but softens and warms as it strokes down the length of it. Their ears strain backwards, only picking up the sound of deep, even breaths. It reminds them of those nights when they were a fawnling. Nan would sit by their bed, stroking their arm until they fell asleep.
âWho are you?â They asks. The question of âwhy are you hereâ came to mind first, but is pushed away when they remember the grove isnât truly theirâs.
The breath tickles the fine hairs on their ears, and lips lightly nip at the tip. âA friend.â
Bristlebud wrinkles their nose. âI never had any of those.â
âOh, but you do. Think, cleric, of who it is you confide in and seek comfort.â
Nan doesnât have a deep voice. Thereâre no critters or crawlers they speak with, not even the squirrels. Itâs difficult to determine right off which ones can talk back, and if they can be trusted not to snitch on hiding spots to passerbyâs. Over and over they comb through their memories, until one rams itâs way through: The doll, the coins. So mundane is their conversations that it had been slow to awaken and come to mind.
Bristlebudâs hands cover their face, nearly opening their eyes as the realization blooms in full. âDo you have a nose?â
The laughter is warm and deep. It bubbles against their back, and vibrates through them. âOf course. Iâve inhabited effigies in far worse conditions than that.â A nose then nuzzles into their mane, confirming that it is intact.
âWe have until the second moon crosses beyond the grove. So, what would you wish of me, Tiodhla'cailleach?â
âYou know my true name?â
âOf course. Iâd make a poor father for not knowing the names of his children.â
Bristlebudâs ears droop. The request thatâd been at the forefront suddenly shrivels, and conjuring another on such short notice would be hard. When asked whatâs the matter, they explain: âIf youâre my father, then my request is incestuous.â
The voice laughs, âoh, for juniperâs sake, no! Itâs complicated business, but not incest. I did not sire you personally. That honor went to some lucky fellow within the Gloaming Court. I simply encouraged your kind to grow and flourish, like a farmer tends their crop or a shepherd their herd.â
Moving from their arm to their belly, the hand rakes through the line of fur that runs the length of their stomach. Calloused fingertips brush the underside of their breast. âIf you want for my company, I will be happy to keep it as thanks for how sweetly you tend my altar.â
To be touched by someone other than themselves is something theyâve longed to try, and often fantasized about. Bristlebud nods, keeping their hands over their face for fear of temptation prying their lids apart. Even speaking frightens them. There is something about them bothers others. Whether it be their Mamâs sin, or something else, Bristlebud doesnât understand what it is that makes them seem so strange and foul.
As much as their mind turns over the whats and what ifs, another thought wheedles its way to the surface: Why canât they look upon the figure? Perhaps, they think, the magic that animates him will diminish if witnessed. They could ask, but before the idea takes root those fingertips have wormed their way down to the thick fur that hides their sheath.
A finger slips inside, teasing the head of their cock by flicking the gold hoop piercing it. Coaxing their cock out takes little effort. Itâs such a familiar sensation, something they do themselves. Something theyâve done under the shadow of the statue. Of course heâd know what they like. Heâs watched and listened for the years theyâve lived here. Perhaps not for all of it, but he certainly seemed to have taken notice of enough.
His cock, solid and hard presses against their lower back. Bristlebud sucks their lower lip between their teeth. The thought of that shaft spearing them curls hot in their belly, and sets their tail wagging. Theyâre both nervous and excited. Anticipation flutters in their breast, waiting and only slightly frightened when the pointed tip bumps beneath their tail.
Itâs a slow and gentle sort of thing. A far cry from the sloppy explorations with their own hand and fingers. They screw their eyes shut and grab the ends of their horns when theyâre rolled onto their belly. Itâs a strange impossible fullness. They donât understand how that cock can both be too much and not enough. Each thrust they try to meet, wanting to savor the entirety of it.
The voice encourages them to make sound, to speak, to say what they like and want. Its been so long since anyone has asked them what theyâd like, and not shortly snipped at them to âshut your gobâ. Theyâre glad for how tightly theyâve shut their eyes when their voices catches while telling him: âPlow me deep and fastly, as if the frost is coming.â
Bristlebud enjoy the rumble of his chuckle against their back, and the way they can feel his grin shift in their mane. Their hands move from their horns to clutch at the blankets and quilts that theyâve piled into a nest. They hide their face in the fabric, and bite a corner out of habit, to stifle the sounds that his cock drives out of them.
âYouâve always shined so bright, donât quiet yourself.â
A sob rips out of them at those words. The urge to open their eyes is overwhelming, to look back at who so lovingly speaks to them and fucks them so thoroughly. âI want to see you.â
His hips still, pressing against their rump. âA peek then. I do hope you wonât be disappointed. None of the statues have ever depicted me properly. Seelie sensibilities deem my face too vulgar to include alongside their kings and queens.â
Without separating, Bristlebud carefully rolls onto their back, enjoying the tug and pull of that cock twisting within. They swallow, and for the first time feel hesitant.
Donât be a silly fool, they think. Ugly or odd, it doesnât change the experience or diminish the warmth and love offered. Still, they fear their own mind will betray them if he looks any different than the statue theyâre so used to.
The face swims in their vision, blurred by how tightly their lids had been shut. Bit by bit, it comes into focus: Long, handsome, with a silky beard that blends into the mane around his neck. His face didnât seem to want to stay in one shape. When they reached up to touch his cheek, the features shifted, they eyes tilting like a deerâs and the nose seeming more prominent. He isnât anything close to the statueâs near elven face. His head is crowned with four branching, thorny horns that frame his features and catch in his dark mane.
Bristlebud leans up to kiss him as they did the statue. Instead of cold stone, the lips are soft and a bit chapped. The mustache tickles their nostrils, and the tongue is hot and fat. His beard smells of wine, clover blossoms, and the faint randy stink of a billy goat.
His hand covers their eyes when they part. It remains there as Bristlebud wraps their legs around his waist. His belly sandwiches their cock between their bodies. They rut up into the fine fur, in time with his hips, until they come with a shuddered gasp.
He slows for a moment, allowing them to regain their senses as the intense surge subsides to low rolling waves. They neednât ask him to slow, nor quicken. All the years together, he seems to understand what they enjoy and how to prevent them from becoming overwhelmed while the river is high up the bank.
Though they never see his cock, they guess it must be similar to theirs. They feel the bump of the medial ring, much more pronounced now as it drags and tugs. They feel how the pointed head flares a bit, filling them more than they thought they could be. Itâs so warm.
Theyâre locked together until he shoots his last.
He kisses them with a âsleep well, and dream sweet, my cleric.â
Bristlebud opens their eyes when the hand lifts from their face and blinks up at the patched ceiling of the ruins where roots twist over the stone. Cum is splattered across their belly, clinging to their fur. Loose and sated, they stretch their arms overhead and arch their back. Their tail and the quilt beneath them are sticky with whatâd overflowed.
Rolling onto their side, they look to the dais and see the statue as it had been. Faint light catches on the pale stone as the second moon sinks beyond the groveâs walls. They smile at the unmoving figure that holds the little yarn doll in itâs cupped hand.
âGoodnight,â they say to it, too exhausted to get up and too reluctant to step into the cold spring. Fabric and fur can wait. Itâll be harder to clean, but that will be a problem for later. The pillowâs invitation is a hard one to turn down. It beckons them so nicely, and their lids are already too heavy to lift for much longer.
When dawn crests, Bristlebud weaves another figure after a bath. This one bearing four lopsided horns of wool and twigs. It joins the other doll in the smooth stone palm, set beside it so their hands tangled together.
They prop their chin on the slightly curled fingertips and gaze up at the face they know is false. âThank you,â they say, leaving the request for meeting again unspoken. Itâs not polite to be greedy. Even if he were never to step from the stone again, theyâre glad heâs there to listen.
